Farrell confirmed his recollection of the address by checking it in the Telephone Book, and paid a call on the Home Circle Store next afternoon, while Foe was enjoying a siesta in that state of lassitude which (as I've told you) almost always in one or other of the men followed their crises of animosity. Renton was unaffectedly glad to see Farrell. "Well, Mr. Farrell," he said, as they shook hands, "well, _sir!_ If this isn't a sight for sore eyes! And--when I've been meaning, every fall, to step across home and see your luck--to think that it should be you first dropping in upon me!" He rushed Farrell up and down elevators, over floor after floor of his great establishment, perspiring (for the afternoon was hot), swelling with hospitality and pardonable pride. "And when we've done, sir, I must take you to my little place up town and make you acquainted with Mrs. Renton. She's not by any means the least part of my luck, sir. She'll be all over it when I present you, having so often heard tell--You've aged, Mr. Farrell! And yet, in a way, you haven't. . . . You were putting on waist when I saw you last, and now you're what-one-might-call in good condition--almost thin. Yes, sir, I heard about your poor lady . . . I wrote about it, if you remember. Sudden, as I understand? . . . But if you look at it in one way, that's often for the best: and in the midst of life-- You'll be taking dinner with us. That's understood." "Look here, Ned," Farrell interrupted. "It's done me good to shake you by the hand and see you so flourishing. But I've looked you up because--well, because I'm in a tight place, and I wonder if you could anyways help." "Eh?" Renton pulled up and looked at him shrewdly. "What's wrong? Nothing to do with the old firm, now, surely? . . . I get the London _Times_ sent over, and your last Shareholders' Meeting was a perfect Hallelujah Chorus. Why, you're quoted--" Now you'll know Farrell, by this time, for a man of his class--and a pretty good class it is, in England, when all's said and done; for a man of the sort that resents a suspicion on his business about as quickly as he'd resent one on his private and domestic honour-- perhaps even a trifle more smartly. His business, in short, _is_ the first home and hearth of his honour. So Farrell cut in, very quick and hot,-- "If my business were only twice as solid as yours, Ned Renton, I might be worrying you about it. . . . There, don't take me amiss! . . . I've come to trouble you about myself. Fact is, I'm in a hole. There's a man after me; and I want you to get me out of this place pretty quick and without drawing any attention more than you can avoid." "O-oh!" said Renton, rubbing his chin, and looking serious. "And what about the lady?" "There's no woman in this," Farrell assured him. "No, Ned; nor the trace of one."